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Isabelle was on her way to the city for a recording session at the new studio. Tanned hands on the wheel, a chiffon scarf rippling at the window and gold-rimmed shades: she was satisfied with her appearance in the way a pretty woman vain enough to spend time in front of the mirror is bound to be. There was the added consciousness of incipient stardom. The agent told her over the phone that morning, ”This one is really it, baby! This new guy is great, you’re going to love him. Got the voice of a god. A real hunk. I’m going to send you to the top of the charts with this fellow!”

”Hold on, Sam.” She had been alarmed by the excitement in her agent’s voice. He had made impulsive and sometimes foolish decisions in the past. Isabelle liked to move cautiously, methodically. ”We’d agreed not to decide anything until after we finished this cut.” She spook in a cool, low voice that was both hypnotic and sexy. ”Look Sam, I know we’re going to make it big with all this—I’m the one who convinced you of that, remember? Now who is this guy?”

”Well, I don’t think you know him. He’s a bit of a newcomer, but I’ve seen him playing down at the club doing solo stuff and some back-up work and he’s damn good. He’s the real thing straight from the farm belt. Name’s Ian Kaehler.”

”Yeah, I’m sure he’s good, Sam,” said Isabelle drily. ”You sure you haven’t got your eye on this hunk for other reasons?”

”Cool it, baby. You don’t meddle with me and I don’t meddle with you.”

”Yeah, yeah, I know. The Golden Rule. OK, Sam, you better be right on this one. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

Isabelle had dressed with the usual care, but with a vague sense of anticipation. Only when she put on the black scarf with gold sparkles and the fire- engine red lipstick did she become fully aware of her excitement. In the mirror she gave herself a smile of frank admiration. She wore no bra under the red silk tank top and wanted to be sure the effect was right. Sideways, frontways, the sunlight hitting her breasts directly or indirectly: anyway she tried it, she found she looked good. She realized the air-conditioning in the building would make her nipples conspicuous, and the thought made her smile. ”What the hell are you thinking, girl?” She said suddenly out loud. ”That hunk will probably end up in Sam’s bed, not yours.” She pulled on her jeans without consulting the mirror.

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He arrived on a motorcycle from the long and dusty ride. He thought too late that it would have been wise to bring along a change of clothing. The denim work shirt he wore had gotten smeared with grease when he’d had to stop to tighten a valve. He knew his hair would be like the wheatfields at home after a storm; he hadn’t worn his helmet on the last leg. He’d stupidly left it at the diner where he’d stopped for coffee. ”Got to call that place,” he thought as he dismounted.

Inside the crew was lounging by the door. He glimpsed his guitar propped up by a microphone. The producer was already glaring at him. ”Where the hell have you been? Do you know what studio time costs?”

”Listen I’m sorry—I had engine troub—”

”Listen you me, kid. I’m not going to waste my time with no-shows. If you want the job, you get here on time. Is that clear? Now let’s get going. We don’t have all day.” He vaguely remembered the producer had a reputation for a temper. He saw something red out of the corner of his eye and instinctively glanced at it. It was Isabelle Stiles. A pal had informed him that she was a ”great piece of ass.” >From what he could see his friend was right, but he didn’t want to stare. Besides she looked like those cold, polished women who don’t like to be touched. He tried to collect his thoughts.

”Look, uh, I just need to make a quick phone call. I left my helmet at a diner on the road.” There was silence. The girl was staring at him in disbelief or maybe even disgust. He thought of the grease on his shirt. The producer—what was his name?—looked flushed under his tan.

”Look Travis—.” It was the girl’s voice. ”Why don’t we just go ahead and do the other cut. He can settle his business and I can finish the track.” She spoke calmly and with a poised determination. Because she was now looking at Travis, Ian could observe her more closely. He noticed almost immediately that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were two delicate, but definite points under the red silk. He guessed that if she bent over he would be able to follow the soft round curves all the way to the nipples. Maybe she did like to be touched after all. Keep your mind on your work, he thought to himself. Besides, this girl is being groomed for stardom; she’s going to shoot right out of reach. She’s got all the right people, the right connections.

Travis grumbled, but Isabelle made a motion to the man in the mixing booth. In a few moments her voice was filling the studio and everyone was silent, watching.

You’re the first man I saw, and what I saw I liked, You didn’t take no nonsense, you had a big black bike—

She looked good singing those words. He thought of his own dusty bike. And he thought she looked at him. He felt a swelling in his crotch.

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Isabelle sang but she wasn’t paying attention to the words. She was thinking of the lean, musccular body she imagined Ian must have. She could not explain this excitement to herself. She didn’t approve of his appearance, at least not the disheveled look of his hair and his unironed shirt. Ordinarily she preferred a sleek, well-groomed look, and Ian was not sleek. He had on cowboy boots, but they were worn and scuffed—not the kind she’d admired in Nashville with polished metal tips and alligator skin. The buckle of his belt, however, was singularly shiney, obviously new. It was in the shape of a train. She looked closer and blushed. Was it possible that he—?

”You came right on in and spun ’round my head, You’re one hell of a man—oh yeah, that’s what I said! So come on down with me Baby, come right on down this way! I’m in a real big hurry, I haven’t got all day, Teach me how you do it, show me what you like Come on and hold me tight on that big black bike!”

Isabelle looked up to applause in the sound booth when she finished. Even Ian was grinning, although he wasn’t clapping outright like the others. Isabelle blushed again. There was something interesting about this fellow in spite of his disheveled look. His rich auburn hair caught the glint of the studio lights, his legs stretched out under the jeans looked long and muscular. She was sure she had noticed a bulge in his pants; it wouldn’t be the first time she had observed that kind of reaction in men. But there was something quietly self-assured about him that aroused her in return. He hadn’t seemed embarassed when she stared; he had just sat there grinning with his thumbs hooked in his pockets, legs comfortably parted.

And now, in spite of the producer’s rude welcome, he calmly strode into the studio, grasped the neck of his guitar and swung the instrument over his head until the strap came to rest comfortably on his shoulder. In a moment he was wholly absorbed in the guitar: he stroked the strings, he carefully adjusted the keys. She watched fascinated as his hand darted back and forth from keys to strings, from strings to keys. Then, hovering over the sound-hole, his fingers began moving smoothly and rapidly, in what seemed like an elegant, effortless form of flight. His head was slightly bent over the guitar’s rounded form. When he looked up and quietly informed her that he was ready, she realized she had been holding her breath.

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The recording session went better than he’d expected. Isabelle accepted several of his suggestions and she even began to sing with more subtlty and debth. Not that she hadn’t been good, but the songs were somehow predictable. He tried to show her how to add color and richness and far from resenting his interference, she began to solicit his advice. He guessed she would probably ”make it” (as Travis put it) without him, but he felt instinctively that the songs could use improvement. Travis stood by mutely at first with folded arms and stiff legs, but as the session progressed he relaxed enough to let his feet tap out the time. Sam was visibly excited and clapped loudly after each take. Ian thought he felt the older man’s eyes on him and although it didn’t make him uncomfortable, he could not help wondering if he’d been offered this job on criteria other than musical talent.

Ian gathered his belongings as the crew swarmed into the studio to dismantle the equipment. He was planning on returning to the diner to pick up his helmet, but first he would sit down outside to cool off and have a smoke. Under the studio lights he had worked up a sweat. Isabelle was hovering about looking nervous and uncertain. He supposed she was concerned about the equipment. He stepped outside, stripped off his slightly damp shirt, and sat on the bottom step with a cigarette.

”Well, cowboy, are you headed home?”

Ian swiveled around and squinted up into the sunlight. It was Sam. ”No, well, yes, but I have to pick up my helmet. They’re keeping it for me at the diner.” Facing forward again, he exhaled a voluptuous cloud of smoke.

”You play real good,” said Sam matter-of-factly. His hands were deep in his pockets. His face was shadowed.

”Thanks. I’m flattered to be asked. Miss Stiles has got quite a reputation around here. She’s a real fine singer.” Ian watched the smoke dissipate and wondered what else to say to Sam. Then Isabelle walked out onto the concrete steps. As Ian turned toward the sound of footsteps he had just enough time to make out her collapsing silhouette and fasten his cigarette firmly between his lips when he felt the full weight of her body come down hard into his arms. There was a sort of muffled shriek. As he regained his balance, he found he was cupping her left breast with his right hand. He withdrew his hand reluctantly as Isabelle struggled to get to her feet.

”Thank you,” she said quickly. ‘You probably saved me from a nasty fall. I must have caught my heel on that crumbled step.” She bent over and gingerly massaged her ankle. Ian followed the round, soft curves all the way to the nipples. He could feel that he was hard again. _____________________________________________________________________

”I think I may have sprained my ankle….I wonder if you could help me get inside to the lounge?” Isabelle knew her ankle was not sprained. She had twisted it slightly, but the pressure had given way when she’d fallen. She felt excited and almost light-headed: she had decided to act on an impulse. There was in fact a slight pain in her ankle, but it didn’t matter. She was admiring Ian’s bared torso: a full well-developed chest, with a soft covering of auburn down that tapered to his belly and disappeared underneath his belt. She sucked in her breath sharply and couldn’t help noticing the buckle—and his erection.

”Uh, yes, of course. I’d like to help. Here let me hold your arm and—that’s right. That’s just fine. We’ll get you right upstairs.” Ian cleared his thoughts and put out his cigarette. Avoiding her eyes he grasped her gently around the waist with one arm, and with the other he supported her elbow. They managed the steps with some difficulty and made their way slowly into a carpeted room adjacent to the studio.

”By the way, this is the lounge,” said Isabelle. ”Anybody who’s working here can use this room.” With her heel she swung the door shut. Sam had been lingering in the corridoor in case his help was needed and she wanted him to receive a definite message. Then she raised the hand that had grasped Ian’s waist and began gently stroking his smooth, tanned back. Her other hand explored his chest. ”Ian, I want you–now.” She said in a low, silky voice. ”Do you want me?”

Ian was motionless, but he could feel his cock throbbing. He felt sure that Isabelle had noticed it. The idea pleased him and gave him confidence. He knew exactly what to do. Without answering, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her long and hard. His hands could glide smoothly up and down the silk of her blouse and it was almost like feeling her skin the way the material revealed the texture of the nipples, the shape of her breasts. Underneath the silk he could feel their softness and could squeeze them gently while at the same time caressing the nipples. Isabelle was already at Ian’s buckle, fingering it as though it was itself a cock; abruptly she pulled away and lifted the silk shell over her head revealing the slightly tanned, full breasts still swaying from her sudden movement. Ian thought, ”My God! What gorgeous knockers!” in the language he was accustomed to use in his own thoughts. To her he was about to say something he thought she would consider more tasteful, but she interrupted him.

”I want to do something I’ve always dreamed of doing,” she half moaned. As she said this she was pressing her bare breasts to his chest, smelling his skin, kissing his nipples, running her fingers through the soft, auburn curls. In a series of slow, moist kisses, she traced the contours of his breast, his lean sides, and finally his belly. She came to a stop at the buckle. She unzipped the fly, taking care to avoid nicking his bulge. By this time she was kneeling in front of him. She parted the rims of the fly and began kissing and sucking at his cock through the layer of cotton underneath. She did this until the material was soaked; then she peeled it down to reveal the flushed velvet skin of his shaft which she now bathed with her tongue. Gently she freed his prick from the surrounding material until it stood out stiffly, unencumbered.

”Come on, now,” she murmured. ”I want you to be my stud. I want to feel this cock deep in my throat!”

Ian rocked his hips forward until his shaft disappeared between her moist, red lips. He could feel the warmth and wetness engulf him—a deliciously ambiguous sensation since at times he could imagine that it was her vagina that enveloped him, instead of her mouth. Then he would confuse the two and tell himself that her mouth was a vagina, and he would think of her pussy, of what it would be like when he penetrated her there as well. Fucking her mouth and thinking of fucking her cunt almost made him shoot off, but he resisted. He watched her face as she sucked and it seemed to him that she kept it uplifted on purpose so that he could read her expression. Her lips were ordinarily full, but now were stretched by the width of his dick. Everytime he withdrew slightly in order to rock forward again she would pull harder on his cock with the suction of her tongue.

”OK, Baby,” he whispered hoarsely, ”You want to be my bitch? I’m going to ram this down your throat; I’m going to come into your mouth!” She could tell by the engorged shape of his prick that he was about to come. She gripped his ass cheeks with her hands and then, loosening the tight rim of her mouth from around the base of his cock and relaxing her throat even further, she strained forward until she was able to feel his balls at her lips.

In a voice that he feared afterwards must have come out as a scream or a shout, he cried, ”That’s right, bitch! Take my balls into that wet twat of a mouth!” She gloried in his obscenity and was proud that she could swallow his entire sex. She had always wanted to flaunt this ability before a total stranger. But it had to be the right one, and he was definitely the right one. She relaxed her throat completely to allow Ian to fuck her mouth hard as he came. He did not hold back, but treated her mouth as if it was a cunt. ”That’s right, bitch! Take—it, take—all of it!” He had to pant the words out now. The next thing he knew he was spurting into her, and she was swallowing and sucking at him while with her hands she pushed up her heaving tits so he could see the stiff nipples. When he withdrew, she did something that aroused him incredibly. She had retained some his come in her mouth and now, she dipped two fingers into the hollow between her lips and spread his come over her nipples, making them glisten. She dipped her fingers again and this time encircled the areolas, and finally both breast entirely. Then she stood up and he could see her tits gleaming wet with his come. One last time she anointed her fingers, but instead of smoothing them again over her breasts, she lay down, spread her legs, and began massaging her crotch—an area where her jeans were already stained dark from her juices.

Ian fell back wide-eyed on the couch. Isabelle proceeded to arch her back and moan as she slid her hand underneath her jeans. She spoke to him in a voice that was low and musical:

”I can feel my smooth, taut belly. The skin is so soft. I love to see a man’s rough dark hand caressing my belly the moment before his fingers strain to get into my pants and I tell him, ‘Oh yes, yes, there’s nowhere I won’t let your hand wander. You’re making me wet; you make me crave the feeling of your hand as it spreads over my bush and discovers my wetness. I’m breathing fast just at the thought of how you’ll part my soft, yielding lips and find absolutely no resistance. You’ll begin by caressing the soft wet interior of my cunt just inside my lips, and you’ll be amazed at how my desire makes my wetness fill your hand. And then gently at first, with two fingers, you’ll force deeper into my cunt and feel your cock swell as my flesh spreads and encircles your fingers, kissing and sucking them as if they were a prick. By now I’ll be begging you to fuck my cunt with all of your fingers and to make them reach down to the deep inner walls of my vagina as though you were painting me there with the smooth, wet strokes of a paint-brush.’ ”

Isabelle had opened her jeans and was slipping them slowly over her hips with one hand, while the other remained hidden between her legs. The lower the jeans went the more Ian could see of the hidden hand, until finally she allowed her fingers to be exposed. Her fore- and middle-fingers were deeply inserted in her cunt, the other two were just pressing between the folds as she worked the jeans down to her ankles. When she had freed her feet from the pant-legs, she slowly and luxuriously spread her legs. Ian saw that her four fingers were now gliding easily in and out of her cunt which made soft, sucking sounds in response. Then, surprisingly she removed her hand. She now made a cradle for her head with both hands so that her arms were bent upwards, her upper arms spreading outward from her body as if to mimick the form of her legs set wide apart. In this position, she rocked her hips up and down slowly at first and then more rapidly. Ian watched tensely as her pussy lips expanded to reveal the inner opening that was now glistening and dribbling with wetness. Her legs were so widely spread that her lips were free to expand liberally until he could actually see the interior of her vagina. He watched transfixed as it sucked and swallowed at the air, bursting open and revealing the inner pink wetness, and then closing around nothing as though it were being penetrated by an invisible cock.

At that moment Sam walked in. Ian froze, startled, but oddly excited by the intrusion and by the expression on Sam’s face. More surprising was Isabelle’s response. She moaned louder as if craving the impossible.

”Sam—fuck me! I want you to do with me what you like to do with a man.” Without saying a word Sam grabbed her by the hips and flipped her effortlessly onto her hands and knees. He fumbled for a moment with his fly, but managed to draw out his prick as he spread her ass. With his thumbs he opened her ass-hole and guided his cock with his hips until the tip reached her hole. ”Baby, I’m gonna fuck your ass-hole, is that what you want?” Isabelle just panted and rubbed her hole against the prick in reply. Sam slowly and steadily pushed in. Then she turned and spoke to Ian: ”I want you to lie underneath me—I want you to fuck my cunt—”

”As if you needed to ask—” Ian said almost roughly. ”Baby your tits alone tell me you want it.” He slid underneath her and felt for her cunt. Raising his hips with the strength of his thighs, he lifted his prick to her wet slit and felt it glide into the receptive sheath. He pumped hard until he felt Isabelle gasp and cry out with pleasure. The fullness of Sam in her ass and of Ian in her cunt was almost unbearable.

As she came she heard Sam whispering fiercely, ”Baby, I never knew you were such a hot bitch!” Isabelle barely had the strength to reply. ”I didn’t know you…you liked women, too—.”

”You never asked.” From her position she could not see the broad smile on Sam’s face. –